


Sparklers

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 14:09:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Olórin meets a new guest at his father’s ball.





	Sparklers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “Gandalf/Radagast with 30 [Princes]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/179060905990/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

As well built as the enormous palace is, it seems the walls aren’t _quite_ thick enough—the raucous instrumentals of the band permeate Olórin’s bedroom, even three floors up. On the one hand, it makes it hard to concentrate on all the open books strewn across his desk. On the other hand, Olórin enjoys a bit of merriment as much as anyone, and he finds himself humming along beneath his breath. His foot might even be tapping in time with the beat. The next sentence takes three reads to digest. Then Olórin reaches for his quill, ready to add to his enormous scroll of notes.

A knock sounds on his door. Olórin glances at it, ready to allow the servant entry, but the door opens before his permission, telling him that it’s no servant. Sure enough, his father steps inside, quietly closing the door again and hovering in the threshold. Expression somewhere between scolding and fondly knowing, King Manwë asks, “Were you not aware that the Winter Ball was this evening?” It’s a rhetorical question: Olórin couldn’t have forgotten it if he wanted to. “Or is there some other reason my own son is not in attendance?”

Olórin gestures at his workload, to which Manwë only shakes his head. Olórin hadn’t expected the excuse of studies to work. He tries to explain, truthfully but evasively, “It will not be any different than last year’s festivities. And I am sure Curumo is there; surely you don’t require both of us...”

“On the contrary, that is precisely why I do need you,” Manwë counters. “Your brother is an impressive young man, one who makes me proud at almost every chance, but as clever as he is, he lacks your personal touch. I do not much appreciate his attitude towards the Woodland prince, and I had hoped you would compensate.”

Olórin quirks a brow, sufficiently curious. “I didn’t know the Woodland queen had a son.”

“He does not usually attend such functions, but I am told he all but begged his mother to bring him when he learned of the eagles that have nested in our mountain.”

A new face does make the event seem more promising. Olórin does enjoy the _new_ , even if most of the nobles he knows find little interest beyond their borders. There is still another problem, but as usual, his ever-wise father seems to read his mind. Manwë chides, “Besides, if I must suffer King Melkor, then you can endure Prince Mairon.”

Olórin manages to avoid wrinkling his nose. But he listens, nods, and begrudgingly sets down his quill and puts his book away. Manwë opens the door but waits there. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell Olórin to change into any grander robes. The appearances and impressions can be left to Curumo; Olórin knows that isn’t what his father expects of him. In a plain set of grey-and-white robes, he follows his father outside into the lingering sound of the orchestra and the wafting scent of fresh baking. The two of them make their way down to the foyer, and then Manwë splits off to speak with the Queen of Night. 

Olórin slips cautiously into the ballroom, where most of the guests are in attendance. He flashes a few smiles and offers a few kind greetings, but mostly keeps an eye out for anyone he hasn’t seen, and the other eye out for his brother and borderline-nemesis. It isn’t until he’s almost circled the entire circumference that he notices the earth-brown robes and chestnut-brown curls sweeping out towards the balcony.

Olórin follows after. Beyond the tall pillars and elaborate curtains, the man stops outside, at the very edge of it, where his hands curl around the iron railing. His head tilts up towards the sky. His clothes are plain, lacking any sparkle or jewelry, and if Olórin weren’t specifically looking for him, he might be easily missed amongst the darkness outside.

Olórin already likes that. He’s never been particularly impressed by fancy jewels or speech. He comes right beside the man, which earns him a startled look—evidently, the other prince didn’t hear him coming.

Eyeing up the unassuming, simple handsomeness of the other young man’s face, Olórin greets, “Hello.”

“Hello,” He answers, almost squeaking or stuttering, and blinking as though surprised to have anyone speaking to him at all. 

“I’m Olórin,” Olórin adds, thrusting out his hand and forgoing the title. The other man glances down at his palm.

Slowly, he’s answered: “Hi, oh—Aiwendil. My name.” Olórin nods, and Aiwendil places his hand in Olórin’s. Always observant, Olórin doesn’t miss the dirt caked beneath Aiwendil’s blunt nails or the work-calloused texture to his knuckles. His hands already say a lot about him—he’s held more than one shovel in his life, and he isn’t built for classy parties.

Olórin likes that. He opens his mouth to ask if Aiwendil would like to dance, because that’s about all there is to do at these things, but Aiwendil asks first, “Oh, are you _Prince Olórin_? Do you know about the eagles here? Will they all be asleep now, or might I see one? We don’t have eagles where I’m from, but the thrushes say they’re beautiful!”

Olórin... blinks. It’s a bit of information to unpack. Like Aiwendil apparently speaking to thrushes.

Olórin can feel a grin growing at his mouth. He answers, “This is a little late for them, but it wouldn’t be unheard of to see one now.”

Aiwendil nods and looks back over the mountain cliff, up between the peaks and falls. Olórin thinks he could call one, if he really wanted to, but he usually prefers to let them do as they will and only meddle when he needs to. Although he’s already thinking he might be better off with a different activity, Olórin still tries, “Would you like to dance? I heard my brother, Curumo, was a bit difficult with you. I would very much like to make it up to you, if you’ll have me.”

Aiwendil looks at him again, head tilting to the side. Olórin gets the distinct impression that, despite being alright to look at and seeming sweet as pie, Aiwendil doesn’t get a lot of invitations. Evidently, he doesn’t want them: he replies: “No, thank you... but could we go for a walk in the garden? I’m sure I saw a rabbit on the way in, but my mother said it was rude to run through other people’s grounds...”

Olórin laughs. He wishes he’d thought of that—it sounds a good deal more fun than the ballroom. “I’ll happily walk with you. And we do have rabbits. There’s an entire family of them living beneath the east wing’s courtyard, but don’t tell the gardener.”

Aiwendil’s entire face lights up like he’s never heard of anything more magnificent than _rabbits_. It makes Olórin’s heart skip a beat. This is just what he wanted: someone refreshingly down to earth, even if this is quite literal. When Olórin holds out his arm, Aiwendil happily takes it.

Olórin guides him beyond the ball, out into the wide world of stars.


End file.
